There were a lot of Help Wanted listings. Good-paying jobs he was qualified for, like working on the docks or in a warehouse. Maybe if he applied for some of them, his bad luck from California wouldn’t dog him. He could forget about the Bureau and start fresh. Yeah, he’d have to pay back the cash Townsend had fronted him, and he’d have to hand in the car, but with a decent salary he could manage well enough. The Bureau could find someone else to go after Swan.

  But then what about John? The good meal suddenly tasted like cardboard, and Harry pushed his plate away.

  What happened to John was none of Harry’s damn business. John was just a prop, like Harry’s fancy new suit—a way to get into Swan’s good graces. It’s not like John was a person.

  Right?

  Growling softly at himself, Harry shook the newspaper. He would find an apartment, finish this fucking thing for the Bureau, and then make a real life for himself. John might not be any of his business, but it sickened Harry to think that Swan might right now be making more creatures like him. Creatures with ugly scars and big, scared eyes.

  ***

  The place was half of a duplex, a modest yellow one-story with lace curtains and a tiny shared front porch. It stood on a quiet street in the southeast part of town, between a stucco apartment building and a laundromat. Having seen the ad in the newspaper, Harry had called from a pay phone in the diner, so the landlady was ready for him when he rang the bell. She was a squat, gray-haired woman with a sweet smile. “Mr. Lowe? I’m Mrs. Reynolds. Come in, come in.”

  There wasn’t much to see: a living room with built-in bookshelves, a kitchen and bathroom—both small—and a bedroom. Although not fancy, the furnishings looked comfortable, and the entire place was spotless. Not only was the place nicer by far than the March Hotel, but it was cozier and in better repair than the dilapidated old farmhouse where Harry had grown up.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Mrs. Reynolds. While he inspected, she’d waited for him in the kitchen.

  “It’s great.”

  “I’ve recently rented the other unit as well, to a very nice young man. He’s quiet. You’ll hardly know he’s there.” She tilted her head slightly. “It’s just you?”

  Cue some of the Bureau’s cover story. “No, my cousin will be living here too. He’s been sick. I’m taking care of him.”

  She tsked. “What a shame! But how kind of you to look out for family. If he’s convalescing, you won’t be noisy, right?”

  “Not at all, ma’am.”

  “Good. I expect quiet, cleanliness, and prompt rental payments.”

  Harry didn’t plan to be here long enough to pay more than a month’s rent, but he nodded. “Of course. Forty-five dollars, right?”

  “Yes, with lights and heat included.”

  He paid her, signed some papers, and listened patiently to her descriptions of when to put out the trash and where he should buy groceries and household goods. She also tried to angle for information from him, but Harry stuck to his bare-bones tale. He and his cousin had come to Portland on the advice of a doctor. The cousin had a little money, enough to pay their way for now. If the cousin regained his health, Harry planned to look for a permanent job nearby. Although Mrs. Reynolds seemed disappointed not to gather any juicier details, she eventually handed over the keys and wished Harry a good evening.

  After she left, Harry collapsed into an armchair in the living room. His life suddenly felt too complicated, his burdens too heavy. But after a moment of self-pity, he shook his head. “At least you ain’t in Missouri, Lowe. And you ain’t being evicted from the March.”

  He’d already paid for the Portland motel, so he decided to stay the night there. He needed to pick up a few things for the house anyway—some linens, food, a few cleaning supplies. And some clothing for John. After a last look around his new home, he headed for the car.

  ***

  As it turned out, Mrs. Reynolds had given an excellent shopping recommendation. Located just a couple of miles away, the store had everything Harry needed. He filled his cart with groceries, sheets and towels, and a few shirts and trousers that he hoped would fit John. When he passed an aisle with books and magazines, Harry impulsively grabbed a few paperbacks. Nothing about monsters, though.

  He had to swing by the new house to drop everything off, and by the time he pulled into the parking lot at the Totem Pole, he felt exhausted. He knew he should be thinking about ways to meet Swan but couldn’t concentrate on anything except wanting a long soak in the bathtub.

  When he stepped inside the room, John looked solemnly at him from the bed. Frankenstein lay on the mattress beside him. “That is what I am?” John asked in a tiny voice.

  Harry couldn’t face him now. Just couldn’t. Without saying anything, he marched into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  The house in Missouri had only a single bathroom, which the whole family shared. When he was little, he and his brothers used to bathe together, and the huge clawfoot had been plenty big enough for all of them. The motel tub was much smaller, but at least he had it to himself. He filled it as deep as possible with the hottest water he could stand. Then he leaned his head back against the porcelain, closed his eyes, and tried to think of nothing at all.

  Wrinkled, warm, and pleasantly melty-feeling, he eventually emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Although Harry had been in the tub forever, it looked as if John hadn’t moved a muscle. Harry gave him a weary smile and dug through his suitcase for something to wear to bed.

  “It’s not my name,” John whispered.

  Harry looked over at him. “What?”

  “I call myself John, but it’s not my name. I don’t have a name.”

  “If that’s what you call yourself, I reckon you do have a name, and it’s John.”

  But John shook his head and pointed at the book. “He—it—was nameless.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but that’s just a story. You’re real. If you want to be John, fine with me.”

  John seemed to relax a little, and Harry grabbed underwear and a T-shirt. He almost removed the towel right there, but John kept staring at him, and that was… uncomfortable. So Harry returned to the bathroom long enough to dress and brush his teeth, and after he came back to the main room, he climbed into bed and switched off the light.

  He hoped that would signal John to go to sleep, but no such luck. Even though Harry couldn’t see him—couldn’t hear him either, since John seemed to breathe only when he spoke—Harry could sense John’s alert presence. He sighed. “Found us a nice place to stay. We’ll move in tomorrow morning. There’s a big park only a block away, so we can go there if you get strong enough.” He hadn’t meant to add that last part; it just slipped out.

  John’s response sounded wistful. “A park. With trees and grass?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’d like to see that. Please.” A long silence. “Harry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You knew from the start that I’m a monster.”

  “Yeah. Townsend told me.”

  “You haven’t treated me like one.”

  Harry had to think that over. “I don’t know how a monster’s supposed to be treated. You’re the only one I ever met. I mean, in the movies the good guys are supposed to kill ’em, but Townsend said you ain’t dangerous.”

  “What if I am? What if I get strong and…. Frankenstein’s monster killed everyone he loved.”

  “I don’t love nobody, so no problem there. Anyway, you don’t seem like you want to go around killing folks. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then. We’re settled.” Harry rearranged the pillow beneath his head and pulled the blankets up higher. Portland was colder than LA.

  He was almost asleep when John whispered once more. “Thank you, Harry.”

  Chapter Eight

  Harry had unsettling dreams, but that was nothing new. At least nobody came to complain that he’d been shouting in his sleep. And when he saw that John had again filled out overnight, his cheeks losing some gauntness and his yellow hair less sparse, Harry wasn’t even surprised.

  “You figure if I helped, you could walk to the car? It’s just a few steps from the door.”

  John smiled broadly. “I can try.”

  As it turned out, Harry had to bear most of John’s weight, but at least John remained upright, his bare feet moving slowly over carpet and then pavement. No way was Harry going to stuff him into the trunk again. They had only a short drive, and if anyone saw John in the passenger seat, they’d probably assume he was a sick man. He no longer resembled a corpse.

  John was surprised and delighted to ride up front. “I can look out the windows?” he asked when Harry got into the car. As if it was a big deal. As if it required permission.

  “Sure.”

  John remained silent during the trip, his gaze tracking their surroundings. By the time they arrived at the house, he looked stunned. “There’s so much to see, Harry! I don’t… I don’t even have names for half of it.”

  To Harry, the scenery had been ordinary. Cars. Houses. Shops. Bushes. Some pedestrians splashing down wet sidewalks.

  The journey from car to front door was longer at the house than at the motel, and Harry had to nearly carry John up the three steps to the porch. But they made it inside okay. Harry left John on the living room couch while he went out to fetch his suitcase. He returned to find John smiling as he stroked the salmon-colored fabric.

  “Meets with your approval?” Harry asked.

  “This is what a home looks like. I knew the word but I didn’t… I didn’t understand.”

  “It’s just a few rented rooms.” But Harry had an inkling of what John meant. Even though Harry had just arrived and knew he wouldn’t stay for long, this little place felt as if it fit him. None of the boarding houses in LA had felt like that. Hell, neither had the house he grew up in.

  “Look, I gotta do some things today. But hang on.” He hurried into the bedroom, returning a moment later with one of John’s new outfits and the book Harry had bought the day before. He set them on the couch beside John. “Those are yours.”

  John’s eyes widened. “Mine?”

  “Yeah. My clothes don’t fit you. And I thought you might get bored while I’m out, so….”

  “I’ve never owned anything.”

  Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Now you do.”

  “I can’t express…. Thank you.”

  Were those tears glittering in John’s eyes? Surely not. Monsters couldn’t cry.

  “You can stay on the couch if you want, or there’s a bed in the other room. Can you make it there all right if I ain’t here? You can lean on the walls.” Harry hadn’t given much thought to their sleeping arrangements, actually, but there was no reason why John should stick to the couch when Harry wasn’t home.

  “I think so,” John said.

  “Fine. If anyone comes to the door, don’t answer. Pretend nobody’s home. But if the landlady comes by—she shouldn’t, but I guess you never know—I told her you’re my cousin. I’m taking care of you while you’re sick.”

  John reached up to gently stroke his own face. “She won’t be able to tell what I am?”

  “Not unless she looks real close. You’re, um, looking more human, you know?”

  “But I’m not human.”

  Harry shrugged.

  ***

  It would have been nice if Harry could have simply knocked on Swan’s front door and asked him where he kept the reanimated corpses, but of course that wouldn’t do. Townsend and the other Bureau agents had coached him thoroughly. Take a restrained approach, they said. Get him interested in you first, then pull the details from him. Harry had been skeptical about this plan. For one thing, subtlety wasn’t exactly his strongpoint; he didn’t have the smarts for it. And for another, Swan was going to have to swallow some big assumptions. But in the end, the agents had eroded Harry’s protests. They were the professionals. They knew better than some dumb kid from Missouri.

  So today Harry began the roundabout plan by getting a better feel for the city. He parked his car downtown and spent hours tromping around in the light rain, stopping now and then to warm up with a cup of coffee. The Bureau had given him addresses of a few businesses that Swan frequented—a couple of theaters, some bars, a bathhouse—but they wouldn’t open until evening. Harry strolled by them now, wanting to see the outsides and surroundings in the daylight.

  When Harry had received the list, he’d been surprised that a city as small as Portland had so many businesses catering to queers and that they seemed to operate more openly than similar establishments in LA. Townsend had explained that Portland officials took a more guarded approach to homosexuals, preferring to have them out in the open rather than hiding from constant raids. Besides, Portland had long been a city where men—loggers, sailors, soldiers—came in search of a little company, and the town fathers must have figured there was good money to be made off of those lonely men.

  What would it be like to live in a city where a guy could show his affection for other men openly—at least in carefully selected venues? Maybe if Harry had grown up in a place like that, he wouldn’t have needed to flee. But queerness wasn’t the only demon haunting him, so maybe he’d have run anyway.

  And haunting was a good word. Wandering the streets of this gray city, Harry felt like a ghost. Nobody knew him. Nobody spoke to him or spared him a glance. When it came down to it, the only people in the whole damned state who knew Harry existed were Mrs. Reynolds and the dead man waiting for him at home. Wasn’t that a gas.

  Only when Harry’s rambles took him to skid row did he feel any kinship to the people he saw. Here men and a few women, each layered in dirty clothes, huddled in doorways or came reeling out of taverns, drunk even though it wasn’t yet dinnertime. The rooming houses looked familiar too. Crumbling buildings where you could rent a cramped, dirty room for a night or two. Maybe you’d consider yourself lucky to at least have a roof over your head.

  Not long before the sun set, Harry returned home. John was on the couch, wearing the clothes Harry had bought him, and he greeted Harry with a sunny smile. “The books are wonderful. Thank you.”

  Before John, nobody had ever expressed gratitude to Harry. Nobody had ever seemed happy to see him. Harry didn’t know what to do with the warm feelings that resulted, so he scowled and dropped a newspaper onto the couch. “Picked this up today. Guess you can read it too.” Then he went to the kitchen to make himself some dinner.

  He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d fixed a meal, and now he found it comforting to putter around the kitchen, searching for the right utensils, chopping carrots and potatoes, cutting up and seasoning a chicken. As a child, the only time he ate chicken was when one of his mother’s hens grew too old to lay. Even stewed for hours, those birds remained tough. But this grocery store chicken looked young and tender. Harry slid the roasting pan into the oven, licking his lips in anticipation of the impending feast.

  While dinner cooked, he sat on a hard kitchen chair, sipping Nescafé and watching raindrops course down the window.

  His chicken dinner was delicious—even better than he’d expected. But it felt odd to sit and eat alone, knowing John sat in the next room by himself.

  After putting the leftovers into the refrigerator, Harry washed the dishes and put them away. Another nice, homey task, although slightly jarring to do by himself. Back in Missouri, washing up was the kids’ group task, which sometimes devolved into battles with soapsuds and towels if his father wasn’t around.

  In the bedroom, Harry changed into his flashy new suit. He’d never owned anything so nice or so expensive, and he spent some time admiring his reflection in the mirror. If a stranger saw him dressed like this, he’d assume Harry was a successful young man. One with a high school degree and maybe even some college, with a steady job and lots of friends. It was a good disguise.

  Before leaving, Harry stepped into the living room. John had moved to an armchair, where he sat in the darkness with a book in his lap.

  “I might be home late,” said Harry.

  “All right.”

  Harry fidgeted just inside the doorway. “What’ll you do while I’m gone?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t care.” Then Harry pictured him remaining unmoving for hours. With an unhappy huff, Harry marched across the room and switched on the lamp next to John’s chair. “You can turn lights on and off, can’t you?”

  “If you permit it.”

  “I…. Shit. I don’t care. Look, just don’t leave the house and don’t answer the door. Don’t wreck anything. Don’t be noisy. Other than that, do what you want.”

  Wide-eyed, John nodded at him. “Thank you.”

  Harry walked to the entryway, where he donned the nice coat and fedora he’d bought in LA. He should have been focused on finding Swan, but as he got in the car and drove away, his thoughts remained firmly on John. Could a creature like John feel boredom? Loneliness?

  Maybe in the morning Harry would buy a little radio to keep at the house.

  ***

  According to the Bureau, Swan often visited two downtown movie theaters. Each of them had a balcony where men met other men. Honestly, Harry was curious to see this, but those dark, cramped quarters were probably not the best place to look for his target. He’d try the bars instead.

  The Harbor Club stood at the corner of First and Yamhill. Although a sign on the door proclaimed it off limits and out of bounds to armed forces personnel, the main floor didn’t appear sordid. A long bar with stools ran most of the length of the room, and small tables dotted the tiled floor. The well-dressed men and women inside sipped cocktails and laughed easily. In the back corner near the stairway, a man played the piano. Nothing seemed unusual at first glance, although a closer look revealed that, for the most part, men sat with men, women with women. And many of them were just a bit too close. Here and there a man’s arm lay draped over his companion’s shoulders, or two women held hands.